The Lost Heir
by Lala2003
Summary: Hiccup goes through with his plan to run away, leaving behind no loose ends… or so he believes. After discovering the Nest, then fleeing north, Hiccup builds a utopia at the Dragon Sanctuary, working towards his ultimate goal: destroying the Queen. But no good deed goes unpunished and ghosts from his past are destined to resurface. (Hiccstrid)
1. Prologue I

**Title:** The Lost Heir

**Summary:** Hiccup goes through with his plan to run away, leaving behind no loose ends… or so he believes. After discovering the Nest, then fleeing north, Hiccup builds a utopia at the Dragon Sanctuary, working towards his ultimate goal: destroying the Queen. But no good deed goes unpunished and ghosts from his past are destined to resurface.

* * *

Prologue I

* * *

"We're leaving," Hiccup sighs, his head clouded with troubles. "Let's pack up. Looks like you and me are taking a little vacation… forever."

It isn't that he is particularly fond of Berk – the cruel weather alone would be enough to chase away even the most stubborn of Vikings – but it's his home and he doesn't know anything else.

Setting down his woven basket, he flips open the hinged lid, preparing to rummage through its contents for a final stock check when a low growl stops him dead in his tracks. He's spent enough time with Toothless to pick up on the differences between each of his warbles and he knows, without even turning around, that this one means that he feels threatened – a sound he hasn't had reason to make in a long time. Hiccup darts around the rock embedded in the damp, earthy ground and balks at the sight unfolding before him.

In the centre of the cove, Toothless is circling a petite figure; tail swishing behind him; eyes narrowed to slits; everything about his behaviour screams hostility. Releasing a sharp hiss, Toothless lunges at the Viking, fast enough to scare, but only meant as a warning.

Only one Viking somersaults as gracefully as the way she evades his deadly strike, her blonde hair like a streak of lightning against the steep, mossy stone walls.

"Astrid!" Hiccup yells, in an attempt to distract her from hurting Toothless and at the same time alerting them both to his presence.

_She must have followed me here,_ he thinks. _How could I have let this happen?_ he mentally berates himself, sprinting into action with little coordination and even less of a plan.

"Astrid!" he calls again, heart pounding in his chest.

If she hears him, she chooses not to respond, instead raising her axe high above her head and charges towards the grounded Night Fury. Thinking fast, Hiccup lunges for Astrid's axe and, caught off guard, she fails to cling her weapon as he wrenches it from her hands, pushing her aside.

"My axe!" she yells, but her fury falls on deaf ears as he positions himself between her and Toothless in an pseudo-aggressive fighting stance, praying his dragon understands that this is only a rouse.

"Go! Get out of here!" he orders her, hoping that his acting skills are convincing.

Hiccup doesn't make a habit of lying, but this is different; he has no choice. He needs her to leave, but he knows it isn't in her nature to abandon a comrade in arms to a seemingly bloodthirsty monster; even to save her own skin; even if she barely acknowledged his existence.

Holding out hope that he and Toothless can still flee the island unscathed, Hiccup realises what he must do. She can't see him ride away – it would leave too many loose ends when what he really needs is a fresh start.

The only time he's ever sounded remotely suave in front of Astrid is when he's feeding her the most monumental lie of his life. "I've got this," he tells her, a grimace painted on his face. "I'll be okay," he attempts to placate her, but she's unwilling to accept this as their only option.

Masking her emotions with composure she's far from possessing, Astrid refuses to run from the fight; she's too proud, and Vikings are notorious for having 'stubbornness issues'. "No!" she cries.

"This isn't about honor, Astrid," he tells her, almost as if he'd read her mind. "The village needs you… not me."

Somehow, saying it out loud makes it more real and when she doesn't protest, it makes cutting ties seem less daunting. Realising that without a weapon, she's dead weight, Astrid backs away from the hostile creature, hot tears welling.

Her voice cracks – a sound he didn't know she was capable of. "I'll get help. Just don't die," she pleads. "Promise me you won't die."

He doesn't answer, avoiding her panicked gaze. Facing away from her, he softens his expression in an attempt to calm his friend, despite the sharp blade he's forced to wield against him.

"Go," he urges her once more, turning the axe in his hands and curling his fingers tighter around the handle.

Finally, this time she listens, racing towards the crack in the rocks and in the direction of the village, nimbly ducking under the shield wedged between the slabs.

As soon as she's out of sight, he casts the weapon aside, approaching Toothless with caution, repeating comforting phrases until his demeanour shifts, gradually becoming more relaxed and he allows Hiccup to softly pet him, eyeing the basket hungrily.

"C'mon bud. We can't stay here," he whispers sullenly, dragging the hamper of fish towards his friend, who proceeds to devour its contents.

Somehow he's even managed to screw up leaving Berk unnoticed and, judging by Astrid's speed, unless he acts quickly, matters are only going to get worse for the pair. Every Berkian has been indoctrinated with the belief that dragons always go for the kill, so a spotless, empty cove would raise some unanswerable questions. The type of questions that could result in countless, fruitless search parties, or perhaps he flatters himself and the village simply wouldn't care. Either way, he wants to put this all behind him, once and for all – if only for his own peace of mind.

To accomplish this, he sheds his fur waistcoat, instructing Toothless to shred the garment with his razor-sharp claws. Then, Toothless fires a couple of violet plasma blasts, decorating the lush foliage with patches of smoking cinders having realised Hiccup's intentions. Gathering his few belongings, Hiccup goes to mount Toothless' worn leather saddle, pausing only to contemplate the silvery metallic axe lying innocently on the damp grass.

He marches over to Astrid's axe, Toothless in tow, and picks it up, regarding it with intensity, his own profile reflected in the deadly sharp head. Slicing his palm with the cool iron and a steady hand, he squeezes his hand into a fist, letting the droplets fall on the remnants of his waistcoat. The cut isn't deep, but adrenalin still flows through his veins and vermillion blood seeps into the fabric. He smears scarlet blood on a nearby rock to make the 'murder scene' fully believable and stands back to take it all in, nodding in approval. As an afterthought, he tucks the axe into one of the baskets, reasoning that at least Stoick the Vast can rest easy, believing that his son had died a hero's death.

* * *

Astrid's feet pound on the dirt path, her footfalls are erratic and heavy as she frantically hurries to her village – Hiccup's life hanging in the balance. When she reaches the first row of quiet houses and spots one of the older warriors, she calls out to them the moment she's in ear shot.

"Hiccup! ...Dragon! ...Come quickly!" she pants, growing frustrated as he continues to stare at her blankly.

Meeting her half way, the Viking places a large, calloused and yet somehow comforting hand on her shoulder. "Slow down, lass. Breathe. Tell me what happened."

Rapidly inhaling a lung full of air, she starts over. "I followed Hiccup into the forest and there was this big, black dragon." She uses her hands to illustrate as she knows it isn't a species that's common to Berk. "He told me to run and I didn't know what to do! We need to go help him!" she gasps, wisps of her fringe sticking to her sweaty brow.

Astrid refuses to believe that Hiccup will die. After everything she's witnessed in the kill ring, she clings to the hope that he'll pull something incredible at the last moment. Although she'll never admit it, she's been pretty impressed with Hiccup's skill in Dragon Training – his technique is flawless, albeit unorthodox. But that dragon is like nothing she's ever encountered before and to this there's only one explanation:

It must be a night fury – the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself. And she fears that no amount of skill could save the young Hooligan heir.

Her panic is contagious and the pair immediately split up to spread the word around faster, readying the villagers as swiftly as possible. Moments later, a large group of Vikings, led by Astrid and rallied by a hysterical Stoick the Vast, troop through the woods in the direction of the abandoned cove.

Stoick is still hazy on the details leading up to this situation but he knows his son is in danger. Between ragged breaths, Astrid fills him in on Hiccup's heroic actions, but it only serves to increase his terror for his son's life tenfold. When the word _Night Fury_ starts to circulate, he all but tears out his bushy beard in distress.

He has each passage on every dragon memorised by heart and Night Furies are no exception. _Hide and pray it does not find you. _From what he has gathered from the blonde shieldmaiden, Stoick dreads that this advice will do little to deliver his son from harm.

When they reach the outskirts of the cove, Astrid leads them to the crack in the wall, but Stoick's broad build prevents him from slipping through the tight passage. Pausing only to crack his joints with an audible _pop_, he leaps from the ridge to the cove floor, performing a perfect forwards roll to break his fall. The others funnel in behind him and the search begins.

It doesn't take long for Stoick's eagle eyes to spot Hiccup's vest, matted with fresh crimson blood. Falling to his knees, he takes the tattered fur in his strong hands, hanging his head in resignation – Hiccup is gone. The cove tells a violent story, clearly ending with Hiccup's body being swallowed whole, or worse, carried off to the nest… whatever that entails.

If he cries, the others pretend not to see. Unsure how to react, they mill about awkwardly, trapped between wanting to comfort their leader and respecting his personal space. The fallen heir had shown such promise these last few days, but the memory of the weedy fishbone who wreaked havoc throughout the village has not been completely erased by his recent triumphs and the Vikings can't seem to bring themselves to feel overly cut up over this turn of events.

No one dares speak, opting to allow their chief to mourn, and hang back out of respect and in favour of offering their condolences so soon. After a long pause, Astrid steps forward hesitantly, stomach twisting uncomfortably as she registers just how easily this could have been her fate.

"He... he had my axe," she whispers, trying to soothe her broken chief and provide some form of solace. When he doesn't look up, she tries again to ensure his understanding. "He had my axe, so Valhalla will welcome him like a warrior," she proclaims, wiping a traitorous tear as it slips down her pale cheek.

* * *

"AAAHHH!" Hiccup shouts into the sky, leaning back into the worn leather of the saddle.

Toothless' eyes float upwards in concern and his shoulder plates tense, before he realises his rider is in no physical pain. Hiccup blocks out the pinkish glow of the setting sun with his forearm, and exhales deeply.

"What was I thinking, Toothless?" he laments. "Sure I had every intention of leaving, but not like this."

Toothless issues a melancholy warble in reply. He hates to see Hiccup at odds with himself, but there's little he can do. They both know that they can't fly forever and as it turns out, Hiccup is missing a few essential supplies. At the top of his list was a map. Although cartography is an uncommon profession, if an accurate map exists, he knows exactly where he can find one.

The Northern Markets are approximately two hours from Berk by dragon and he'll be surprised if they can't find everything they need at an affordable price. Bartering is an essential skill when dealing with the merchants of the archipelago, and fortunately one that Hiccup is relatively adept at as he's used to dealing with Johann and the trader's extortionate prices. Besides, he's a little out of practice and the challenge will prove a welcome distraction from his turbulent emotions.

Beyond that, the plan is entirely non-existent. Not long ago, those prospects would have been terrifying, but now – with everything he's been through – Hiccup has never felt more alive. Only now does it register that Toothless has given him the greatest gift of all: freedom. Up in the air, it's just the two of them. There is no war; no Viking and dragon feud; only a boy and his best friend.

His transformation into a thrill-seeking adrenaline junkie is probably a side-effect of having a ferocious fire-breathing dragon for a best friend, but, after everything they've been through, he realises he wouldn't have it any other way.

He leans forward in the saddle to pet the spot just behind his ear-flap, right where he likes it, when suddenly Toothless is shot through with rigidity and Hiccup can feel the dragon's muscles bunch between the stirrups. Something's wrong. Dragging his left wing in the air, Toothless veers off their north-bound course, as if he's being pulled by something from the west. Confused, Hiccup tries to re-centre their flight path, but something else tugs at him stronger and he won't listen.

"Uh- Toothless, where are you going?" Hiccup asks his wayward dragon.

At the very least, he expects a throaty growl or a gutteral rumble in response, but instead he's met with eerie silence. It isn't like Toothless not to vocalise his opinion whenever Hiccup speaks, and now the boy is starting to worry.

"Bud?" he pressed. No response.

The further west they push, the thicker the fog rolls in. What first seemed a soft haze suspended beneath the clouds now fills the sky with a tangible screen, blending the sky and ocean in one murky blur. Even though the sun is just starting to sink behind the westerly horizon, the fog blots out nearly every warm ray of light, sapping the last vestige of evening heat.

Movement on his left drags his gaze aside, and a beat of shadowed wings clears the blanket of fog for long enough to reveal a blood-red scaled flank and razor-sharp talons. Clutched tightly in its claws is a dead yak, head lolling limply from a broken neck. More wings join the first set, the air currents whipping at the heavy curtain of fog until it mostly dissipates, revealing a flock that's hundreds – maybe even thousands – strong. Each dragon is hauling in their own kill and icy dread settles at the bottom of Hiccup's stomach.

In the thick of the flock, trying to adjust the tailfin while Toothless is this uncooperative would most likely send them careening out of formation and into the hide of a wild dragon, so Hiccup can do nothing except crouch lower in the saddle and surrender control.

Without warning, Toothless folds his wings, sending the pair into a nose-dive down a narrow cavern. The rush of air thrashes at the prosthetic fin, threatening to pull the leather membrane from the metal rods, but Hiccup reacts quickly and closes the fin, preventing damage but at the same time, unwillingly assisting the dive. Normally, he's able to read his dragon's movements, but tonight his course remains a mystery and Hiccup can only blindly respond and hope the stretched webbing doesn't rip.

After a series of hairpin turns and jerky weaves between huge stalactites and stalagmites like a mouth of mottled, jagged teeth, the tunnel opens up into a vast chamber, its width tapering to a small opening at the top. Where the floor should have been, blackened plumes of steam rise up from a glowing, red pit – the fumes clouding the far wall. Dim light paints long shadows across shallow ridges jutting out from the sides of the cave, the black shapes stretching and shifting as dragons buzz overhead, some choosing to perch on a ledge, settled but still alert. If this is their nest, the dragons certainly don't look at home.

Beating his wings to reach a ledge further up and closer to the exit, Toothless positions himself next to a stone column and backs up so his body is hidden behind it, then he waits. With dragons practically breathing down his neck, Hiccup doesn't dare try and talk Toothless back to normality and joins the Night Fury in silent vigil.

He watches as each new wave of beasts hover above the chasm to drop their kill into the lava below. Even for a dragon, cremated food would be inedible, so he wonders why they would do this.

He doesn't have to wait long for an answer. Lagging behind a group of nadders, a weathered monstrous nightmare flutters into the cave and circles the pit. It's wings look tattered and it's flight is laboured. All it's caught are a couple of fish heads, mouths gaping and silver scales catching the crimson light. Hesitantly, it drops them before frantically flapping its flimsy wings and climbing towards a small gathering of nightmares...

But it isn't fast enough.

Out of the lava rise a gigantic, draconic set of jaws that snap shut, trapping the nightmare between its crusted lips. The smaller dragon shrieks as its wings are pierced and shredded by broken teeth and it's dragged down into the smoke. After swallowing its snack, the massive dragon pauses, as if it has sensed Hiccup's foreign presence, and the loose skin of its throat ripples with a primal growl.

One large eye rolls in its socket and locks onto the rock formation Toothless is hidden behind. Suddenly, Hiccup isn't worried about being spotted by another dragon, all that matters is breaking the trance trapping his friend in place, and fast.

"Toothless. You've got to get us out of here, bud." He wills Toothless to take flight, but it's as if he is anchored to the ledge, immoveable.

The monster angles itself to lunge and frightened, Hiccup pulls on Toothless' ear flaps. When other dragons start to break away, the flurry of wings jolts the Night Fury out of submission and they leap into the air. Toothless shoots vertically upwards, quickly overtaking the other dragon species as they try to gain altitude on a corkscrew flightpath.

The pair burst out of the narrow opening and into the cool night air, but that creature lurking within the belly of the mountain has left both dragon and rider spooked and they continue flying straight, long after they're in the clear. Pure luck finds them heading north once more, but with no sun to lead the way and the stars obscured by heavy rain clouds, a permanent fixture along the Meridian of Misery, they have no form of accurate navigation beyond instincts.

When the sun rises and the sky clears, Hiccup realises they've left the Northern Markets far behind. The weather is even colder than on Berk and Hiccup supposes they've wound up somewhere amidst the icy tundra of Freezing to Death. With daylight now upon them, Toothless becomes sluggish, reminding the young Viking of the dragon's nocturnal nature, and two sets of eyes stay peeled for somewhere to make camp.

Just up ahead, Toothless spots a sizeable stack of rocks with a sloping slab balanced over a small opening, offering shelter. Tiredly, he drifts in to land and trots in a singular circuit of the floorspace while flaming the stone, before curling up in the centre. Hiccup practically collapses against his flank, his legs are stiff from the bend the stirrups set his knees in and it feels like lead weights are glued to his boots. But this arrangement isn't good enough for the caring Night Fury who protectively tucks the boy under a midnight black wing, keeping him safe. It isn't long before a dreamless sleep takes them both.

* * *

**A/N:** Welcome and thanks for reading the first installment of my take on the 'running away' trope! Our TV broke, so this happened :) Please leave a review, all feedback, positive and negative is very much appreciated. As for how I'm going to make this different from other fics of its kind, you'll have to wait and see. Some influences will come from Race to the Edge, but I will mostly rely on world info from the movies. Updates won't be very regular, but I will try and put up a meaty chapter each time to make up for it. Until next time!


	2. Prologue II

**Title:** The Lost Heir

**Summary:** Hiccup goes through with his plan to run away, leaving behind no loose ends… or so he believes. After discovering the Nest, then fleeing north, Hiccup builds a utopia at the Dragon Sanctuary, working towards his ultimate goal: destroying the Queen. But no good deed goes unpunished and ghosts from his past are destined to resurface.

* * *

Prologue II

* * *

Toothless is awoken by someone pulling at the buckles of his saddle. It can only be a few hours since he drifted off and he's not yet in the mood to go flying. Grumbling, he rolls over, trying to shake the nimble hands working to adjust the straps when something grunts beneath his weight. Cracking open one reptilian eye in surprise, Toothless lifts his wing to see a very squished and very grumpy Hiccup.

With his face still pressed into the stone and soot marking his cheek, Hiccup's voice is muffled when he speaks. "GeRr oFf mE, MoOfLefF!" he manages.

If Hiccup isn't up yet and, until he was flattened, has been sleeping, then who is tugging at his saddle? Issuing a distressed yelp, Toothless scrambles to his paws, accidently swatting the heavy-eyed viking curled up beside him with his tail, and swivels to face the intruder, unfurling his wings to keep a dazed Hiccup from their sight.

In spite of the spiked mask and feral stance, this person is undeniably human. Their clothes are marked with a sky-blue, textured paint, accented by a rusty, red dye. In one hand they hold a long staff that curves into hooks at each end, the larger hook sports a dangerous-looking row of spikes along the narrowest side. Strapped to their forearm is a round shield, painted similarly to their unusual garb and fixed together with large, messy stitches, unlike the neat, small ones running along the seams of his saddle.

His saddle! Suddenly his thoughts are dragged back to a moment ago when he felt the ties slacken and the leather slide easily over his scales with the arch of his spine. The seat slips from his back, no longer fastened by buckled straps and dangles beside him uselessly. They were trying to immobilize him and stop him from flying away!

After arriving at this conclusion, Toothless shrieks and fires a purple shot of plasma at their feet, a warning not to take another step. A little startled but mostly unfazed, the person tilts their head to one side and rattles the pods fixed into the curve of the hook in a figure eight. The effect is immediate and Toothless' temperament is instantly calmed, though he is no less protective of his rider and keeps his wings extended.

Finally, Hiccup is able to find his feet and pops up on Toothless' left, his guard rising at seeing the strange human amidst their makeshift camp. The absence of draconic growls lessens his concern, but Hiccup is smarter than groundless trust and takes a step closer to his friend.

"Who are you?" he asks, placing a calming hand on Toothless' scales in subtle definition of their bond. "What do you want with Toothless?" His first thoughts automatically go out to the Night Fury - his best friend - and likewise, his are with Hiccup and the desire to protect him at all costs.

Instead of answering, the person slips beneath the black dragon's winged barrier and comes face to face with the small teenager. It surprises him that Toothless doesn't move to attack, but the lack of aggression being shown towards the stranger has him re-evaluating preconceived notions of hostility.

They're so close now that Hiccup has to look up to match their gaze. The mask covering their face has a skeletal design with blue paint surrounding shadowed sockets where their eyes must be. Between slits, Hiccup can make out the shape of a pair of large oval eyes studying him intensely.

The stranger bends down to his height, eyes glued to his face – his chin, and he feels a prickle of heat at being so closely examined. They switch the staff over in their hands and with their freed fingers reach up to trace the spider-web thin line of his scar with a tenderness akin to familiarity.

A soft gasp passes their lips, warm and laced with elation. "Hiccup…?" whispers a gentle female voice, vastly different from the husky baritone he expected to hear.

"Do I know you?" Hiccup asks, voice clipped in uncertainty. This woman definitely recognises him and he dislikes missing the pivotal puzzle piece that joins the two of them together. He can't help but feel like a child pulling on a thread, waiting for the mystery to unravel.

After a charged beat of silence, she reaches for her helmet, pulling it over her head and exposing her pink cheeks to the frigid cold. At first, he believed the mask to conceal the face of a hardened warrior, but this woman radiates kindness.

Her auburn hair – a perfect match to his own – is pulled back from her face in a loose braid, a few silver strands betray the age her youthful complexion denies and her crystal eyes sparkle with adventurous wanderlust, the same gleam reflected in his own. One look and Hiccup knows she is a kindred spirit.

Her voice is taut with emotion. "No. You were only a babe… But a mother never forgets," she says.

Of all the constants in his life, the facts, the truths, nothing has ever seemed more… certain than this. All along, he felt connected to her by some dormant instinct now reawakened and now, at last, he understands why.

"You're my mother?!" he exclaims. He puts the heel of his hand to his forehead, pushing up his bangs and runs his fingers through his hair. "This… this is _amazing_! How are you alive? Where have you been all this time? What are you doing–"

Hiccup's mother, Valka, puts her fingers to his lips and cuts him short. "I think it'll be easier for me to show you. You'll find we have far more in common than you think…" Her lips curve into a pleased grin. "Come," she adds, weaving around Toothless' broad frame occupying most of the space in the little shelter and towards the threshold.

Hiccup follows her through the mouth of the cave and back over the flat tundra, tufts of brittle grass peeking through the thin layer of snow. It's no surprise, but no less amusing when an uncoordinated Night Fury performs an accidental pirouette as his feet skid over the slippery surface. Toothless huffs at their laughter, expelling a spiral plume of steam from his nostrils, which quickly morphs into a gruff sneeze brought on by the cold weather. He wrinkles his nose but is no longer monopolising the humans' attention.

Hiccup can sense a flicker of anticipation building in the air as his mother tracks something moving just beyond his shoulder, but before he can turn and see for himself, a rush of hot air funnels down his collar and his shirt billows away from his skinny torso.

Perched behind him on the stack of rocks is a majestic dragon – a species Hiccup has never encountered before – preening its scales, with its plated head inclined towards him in curious contemplation.

The dragon's body is covered in light blue scales, set alight by fiery red accents over its bone crown, its droopy whiskers and colouring the tips of its extremities. It has mean yellow eyes, but their expressiveness counter the perception of malice cast over its features.

"Meet Cloudjumper, my best friend and loyal companion," says Valka, cordially introducing her reptilian comrade.

Hiccup lowers his head in respect, and the larger dragon leans even closer to his head, practically inhaling his auburn mop before passing his verdict. Cloudjumper approves of the rider, and Hiccup breathes a sigh of relief at having passed the dragon's strange test.

Valka takes this as a cue to begin her tale; all misunderstandings resolved and approval earned on all parts. "That night, the night of the raid that took me away from Berk," Valka starts, locking eyes with her son once more, "Cloudjumper had broken into our hall. He was leaning over your crib and I was about to strike him down, but… he didn't lay a claw on you. The way he was looking at you reminded me of _myself_. It was caring and gentle, and that was when I discovered the truth about dragons.

"Cloudjumper took me to protect me and as much as I wanted to, I could never return. I thought… I always thought you'd become one of them. A killer," whispers Valka, a dark shadow passes over her face.

"For the longest time, I thought that's what I wanted too," admits Hiccup. "But then I met Toothless." A fond smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

Valka's eyebrow kicks up at his choice of name for the fearsome 'spawn of death', but she doesn't comment.

"In the last raid, I built this mechanical bola-launcher. I wanted to help the war effort and I actually hit something." The disparity between this and his original account of that night is stark; he's no longer proud of it.

"I went out alone to find the dragon and return with proof that I wasn't useless, but when I found him, he was still alive... I looked at him and I saw myself, so I cut him loose. He roared at me – didn't you bud?" Hiccup scratches Toothless under his chin and the dragon leans into his touch. "But in turn, he let me live too," he says, his muted astonishment tells Valka he still has much to learn.

Even so, she glows with pride, but shame colours Hiccup's cheeks and he continues, determined to tell his mother the whole story, no matter what she thinks of him at the end.

"The bola ripped Toothless' tail fin. He can't fly without me," he finishes, voice heavy with remorse.

"We all make mistakes," Valka reassures. She closes the gap between them and softly squeezes his upper arm. "It's what we learn from them that matters. Do you think I stayed at home, cooking or cleaning or something equally as trivial during every dragon raid? _No_! I _fought_ dragons, I didn't know any better," she confesses passionately. "But everything I've done since has been to _atone_ for those mistakes."

Hiccup isn't entirely convinced, but the burden of his guilt lessens and he stands a little straighter, his heart more open to hope.

"Where were you?" he asks again, still amazed by the story she shared and the similarity to his own experiences.

He understands why she couldn't return, that isn't what he's asking. He wants to return there with her; to a place where he and Toothless can live without fear of being cast out or worse. After all, those fears are what chased him away from Berk, driving him into the unknown rather than endanger his friend. It's a price he's willing to pay and if anything he feels all the richer in acceptance of this toll.

"Cloudjumper took me home," Valka replies. "Not far from here is a dragon sanctuary. I've been living under the Dragon King's protection ever since."

"The King?" Hiccup questions. The image of the monster inhabiting the Nest is dredged up to the forefront of his mindseye and a shiver drops down his spine.

"An alpha dragon. Impossibly huge, but gentle and watchful of those in his care. He lets me stay there as a friend of the dragons and in return I do what I can to aid the sanctum. It was my intention to free Toothless and take him there. Before I saw him protect you, I believed him to have escaped from trappers," she explains. Toothless warbles ambiguously, but most likely in response to his name. "Every nest has its Queen, but only an alpha provides for those in need. The sanctuary isn't far from here, I can't wait for you to meet him!"

Packed ice crunches underfoot as Valka approaches Cloudjumper and the dragon lowers his back for her to climb on. Toothless' mouth is drawn in a big dopey grin and he looks just as excited to follow the pair into the sky as Hiccup is.

Strapping the saddle back in place and checking the tail fin is in order, Hiccup prepares to take flight. It takes a while as half the contents of the saddle bags are strewn over the cave floor from being dragged along, but soon they're gliding through the air alongside the Stormcutter.

Hiccup still has so many unanswered questions. He doesn't fully understand why dragons raid Berk, yet behave so differently on their own and if anyone is able to provide the answers he needs, it will be his mother. Toothless beats his wings faster to catch up to the other pair, his wingtip almost touching Cloudjumper's talon.

"Something happened just after we left Berk. Toothless stopped responding to me and flew us into this volcano full of dragons." He can't disguise the fear in his voice; what kind of compulsion does that creature have over his friend?

"The Nest," says Valka, nodding. "You must have seen a queen. You're lucky to have survived," she murmurs gravely. A diaphanous cloud passes between them.

"The Nest... " he repeats. "The thing Vikings have been after for centuries." He finds it fitting that he should stumble upon it on accident. "And this Queen, how is it able to control them?"

"She doesn't have power over their every action, but she has the ability to summon dragons to her side. If they don't return to her with an offering, they'll be eaten themselves. That's why they raid Berk." Valka's voice is bitter at the injustice. "I don't know much of their species, only that few dragons can compete with their power. Even fewer are able to resist her call. Judging by the sphere of this one's control, I'd wager she's a titan wing."

Hiccup isn't entirely sure what a 'titan wing' is, but he makes a mental note to learn all he can about dragon classification later. Right now, another question is much more pressing. "What can we do? Innocent people are dying and the dragons are being enslaved by a demonic tyrant. This has to end," he says decisively.

Valka nods solemnly. Hiccup supposes she had tried not to think of her old home, never ceasing to work to make the world a better place, but never looking back on her old life in favour of always moving forwards. Putting an end to the war will be no easy task, but turning his back on the archipelago promises to be even harder.

Fixing his gaze on the horizon, Hiccup begins the laborious process of sorting through all he has learned. He's so focused that it isn't until their destination becomes a monolithic obstacle in their flightpath that he remembers himself and their present journey to the Dragon Sanctuary.

On the outside, the structure appears to be a frozen wasteland, completely inhospitable and nothing like the safe oasis his mother described. The whole mountain is formed from colossal, gravity-defying icicles that jut out at different angles, the random jaggedness conjures the scene of a great battle raging between the forces of nature unfolding in Hiccup's mind – violent and epic – with this as the inconclusive aftermath. Beautifully destructive and with no clear victor.

As they fly closer, they near a small gap in the glacier and Cloudjumper folds his wings to land on a horizontal ice beam. Hiccup and Toothless follow close behind and the moment the Night Fury's paws touch down, Valka jets off, leading a winding path through irregular tunnels cut in naturally geometric pillars, ancient refinements of a pyroclastic eruption.

The whole route is lined in these basaltic formations, some too steep to climb, so Toothless gives the short teen a leg up over the highest ones. It's surprisingly difficult to keep pace with Valka's practiced agility, but she slows for his benefit and soon they arrive at the heart of the sanctuary.

In a word, it is _magnificent_. The mountain opens up into an ice-roofed caldera populated by countless plant species Hiccup has never seen before. Aside from an abundance of trees, Berk's unsavoury climate is suitable for little variance in the way of foliage. This place, however, is carpeted in lush greenery and exotic flowers. The air is humid and defrosts his chilled bones, even in front of the hearth, Hiccup can't remember being this warm. A rolling waterfall tumbles over the cliff edge, completing the tranquil atmosphere inhabiting the sanctuary.

The fauna is the most impressive of all. Dragons of all sizes, shades and builds have made a home here. It's staggeringly different from the Nest, where the Queen's workers slave away to serve the demonic reptile, ceaselessly ill-at-ease and miserably alert.

But what steals the breath from his lungs is the King of Dragons. He looks to be sculpted from the ice itself, snowy white with charcoal highlighted tips. The dragon exudes power, it's sheer size alone places it at the apex of dragon hierarchy, but he commands respect through benevolence rather than compelling others to bend to his will. Large spikes protrude from the back of his neck, shield his entire back and line the length of his wide tail. His scales have a coral-like quality and ice clings to his huge tusks.

"He wasn't born an alpha," Valka reveals, speaking in low tones as not to shatter the moment.

Hiccup almost forgets to breathe in the presence of such a powerful aura, but remembers himself at the sound of her voice. "The Bewilderbeast earned his status through combat and vigilance. We follow where he leads of our own free will."

"Do you think we can persuade him to challenge the Queen?" It's no question of who would win, but whether or not it can be done is still up in the air.

"Not while there's the risk of her using her influence to control the worker dragons. If it meant they'd be caught in the crossfire, he'd never engage a Red Death." This had been Valka's first thought, but it has long since been explained to her, through the articulate use of dragon charades that the idea is implausible; a dead end.

But Hiccup tries to think around the problem. "Then… we'll just have to separate her from her flock. If we can get those dragons out of her range, she'll have no power over them!" It will take much longer to accomplish, but, even as a work in progress, it's the best plan they've got.

"Hiccup, it isn't that simple. We'd need an army," she dismisses. "Each dragon would need a rider to negate her influence. That means we'd need the help of hundreds of Vikings. It's an honourable notion, but it can't be done."

Valka The Warrior removes her riding gear piece by piece. In her place stands an average, unremarkable middle-aged woman of the archipelago, defeated by insurmountable odds.

"You're wrong," he contradicts. "This place is the perfect base of operations. We just need a few allies and the right supplies."

Perhaps he's being naively optimistic, but he believes the Queen can be defeated. The more he thinks about it, the more the idea starts to take shape for some kind of dragon rider army to be used against her. He paces back and forth depicting blueprints for his vision of the future with his words.

"We could establish trade routes… and of course we'd need wares to trade... but I'm sure we could come up with something! ...We can tax imports and exports and use the income to fund the army..." he trails off, wracking his brain for the next stage.

Valka watches him construct his plan and can't help but be drawn in by the possibilities it affords. When she joins him in devising a crazy plan of action, the version of Valka who had given in and resigned crumbles away, replaced by the strong fighter Hiccup first discovered out on Freezing. It has been a while since she allowed herself to hope, but it was hard not to with Hiccup's positive attitude shining forth.

"Suppose we could bring trade here, I might know something that could be of use." Her face is awash with excitement and she is fully engaged in the discussion, as opposed to when she was humouring his wild fantastical schemes, but not convinced it was actually feasible. "Beneath the mountain run ancient ruins, dating back to the era of _Bork the Bold_. In one short exploration, I discovered a whole host of valuable artifacts that would be perfect to trade with!"

She motions for Hiccup to follow, mounting Cloudjumper once more and swiftly drifts towards a secluded entryway at the base of the caldera. The mouth is obscured by a curtain of overgrown vines, and pulling them aside, Valka gestures for Hiccup to proceed. An unspoken request passes between Valka and Cludjumper, and the latter sparks a low cloud of gas in the back of his throat that illuminates the damp walls of a hidden tunnel.

Dark stone slabs, cut from the same volcanic rock as above ground, slope downwards into an open stairway overlooking a second, sprawling, subterranean cavern. Natural light spills from above revealing a frosted-over abandoned city, long forgotten to the rest of humanity.

The ice appears to have preserved the architecture and the buildings remain relatively intact, the stone remnants of a vast and advanced civilisation. Some houses are cut into the walls of the chamber whereas other buildings are entirely constructed from the ground up, topped with rows of castillions and other fortifications. Sturdy bridges stretch between buildings, criss crossing over layers of stacked development.

"This is impressive," Hiccup appraises. "It makes you wonder if Berk could've become a place like this if not for the Queen." He swallows thickly, remembering why his mother had brought him here to begin with. "Where do you suggest we start?" he asks, briskly moving on and casting aside thoughts of an opulent and prosperous Berk.

Valka points to a huge door across a suspended bridge spanning the width of the cave, bolted and sealed with security on par with the arena cages.

"The Vault."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading chapter two :) I was doing research for this story on Wiki when I found out about the ruins mentioned in the game (I haven't ever played it myself) and figured they would work well in this story. Thanks to everyone who favorited, followed or reviewed last time, it was surprising how many did and now the pressure is on to not disappoint! Don't forget to review, constructive criticism is very welcome. Until next time!


	3. Prologue III

**Title:** The Lost Heir

**Summary:** Hiccup goes through with his plan to run away, leaving behind no loose ends… or so he believes. After discovering the Nest, then fleeing North, Hiccup builds a utopia at the Dragon Sanctuary, working towards his ultimate goal: destroying the Queen. But no good deed goes unpunished and ghosts from his past are destined to resurface.

* * *

Prologue III

* * *

"I think my spine is permanently twisted," whines Snotlout as he trudges through the marsh in his thigh-high yak skin boots. "I've never stooped so low — literally!" he complains.

Astrid, the twins and Fishlegs shoot him an unimpressed glower. His hands are placed on the small of his back as he tries to straighten up to his full (though still diminutive) height, and there's a satisfying _pop_, as if each of his vertebra have been forcibly realigned.

"There we go," he says in a tight whisper from the back of his throat, pain evident in his voice.

"Quit complaining, Snot. Unlike the rest of us, you have a lot less further to stoop," quips Tuffnut with a gravelly snicker as he pulls back another layer of peat with his serrated turf knife.

The stockier boy wades over to where Tuff stands and tries to slug him on his jaw, but the swampy bog has a tight grip on his calf and he falls forward, face first into the oily mud with a huge _splat. _

Chortling, Ruff bends over and starts to collect the tiny nodules of bog iron that her brother has exposed. "Yeah, I'm gonna have a crick in my neck for at least a week after this!" she groans hoarsely.

Clumps of mud catch under her nails as she feels around in the blackish marsh for hard lumps, squinting to pick out anything with a shine glinting in the fading light. The ends of Ruff's yellow plaits are matted with slick mud and despite her own pair of yak wellies, peat from the bog has still managed to squish inside through the wonky stitching joining the leather panels, so every step she takes sounds with a moist squelch.

"We should head back soon," says Astrid, glancing at the newly lit torches lighting up the distant village.

Fish yelps as he starts to sink too deeply into the mud. "Yeah, I can't see anymore," he quickly agrees.

Astrid examines her hands. New blisters are forming on her palms and her fingers are rough with callouses. The pouch on her hip rattles with a small collection of bog iron, barely enough to smelt the rivets for one plank of wood, let alone the fleet of mangled ships anchored in the docks. She pictures the splintered wood and broken masts, finding it hard to imagine them fixed-up and sea-worthy.

Even when they pool their findings, there's nowhere near enough iron for the repairs they have to make this winter.

"I don't understand," moans Snotlout, collapsing in the fringes of the meadow, where the peat turns into solid ground. "We've always harvested more than enough within the first week of bog duty! How come —in the same time— we've only met a fraction of our quota?" he asks.

Fishlegs yanks off a muddied boot and drains out the bog. "Because…" he begins, voice heavy with misery. "Hiccup always showed us the best places to search." Fish rings out his greying, waterlogged sock with a disgusted frown.

Ever since they were little, the auburn haired child joined them on bog duty, leading the way to the areas of peat richest with iron. He noticed things the others didn't, patterns in the dispersion that they wouldn't have picked up on. But at the end of the day, his haul was always the smallest — they just never realised what an invaluable asset he was to their team before now.

Astrid visibly tenses and the subject is readily dropped. But their belated gratitude leaves a bad taste in all their mouths.

"—That, and our quota has almost doubled in size," says Ruffnut, distractedly pulling brown grass from her braids.

It's true — bog duty has become twice the job it ever was since the trade vessels stopped docking at Berk. But two winters ago, Trader Johann told Stoick he would not venture this far into the Archipelago again; the pitiful profit to be made was no longer worth the hazardous sea voyage to his tight pockets. Johann was Berk's last lifeline to the Northern Markets, and between the Chief's unrelenting search for the Nest and the constant raids plaguing the island, Berk's iron reserves have been severely depleted to fuel the war effort.

"Gobber needs all the iron he can get his hands on to arm the warriors in time for spring," says Fishlegs. "Er—hand," he corrects himself with a weak smile.

Spring. The worst season for raids: when the dragons return to the Barbaric Archipelago in droves, making up for lost time.

"Do you ever wonder where they go?" Astrid asks quietly.

After what happened to Hiccup, her friends have seen Astrid grow up so much in the span of just a few weeks. A jaded maturity ages her countenance and she seems much older than fifteen, and much older than the rest of them, who still mope about being stuck with the worst chores at this end of the calendar.

"Back to the Nest —they probably sleep during the coldest nights," Fishlegs replies with a lopsided shrug.

"The arena dragons don't sleep," Astrid points out.

Around this time, they start fighting with renewed vigor for freedom — that's why Dragon Training always concludes before Snoggletog. Even the strongest trainees don't stand a chance against a dragon with winter madness (Gobber's official diagnosis of the strange condition that annually grips the caged beasts).

Even this far from the village, the frenzied shrieks of crazed reptiles can be heard rising up from the arena pens. The scrape of talons against stone echo off of Raven Point and fall into the meadow like draugr screams in the distance. It's eerily chilling.

"I've never really thought about it," admits Fishlegs. "I have no idea why they leave, I'm just grateful that they do."

Astrid nods absently, her thoughts elsewhere. The others hum in agreement; Snoggletog is everyone's favourite time of year — there are no attacks for the best part of a month. Sure, the chief has everyone hard at work preparing the village for the demons' return, but it's the only time a good night's sleep is guaranteed.

With aching muscles and sore limbs, but with sleepy heads full with thoughts of bed, the five of them drag themselves back to the village in time for supper at the Mead Hall. They pass the forge, fires freshly put out with curls of smoke still snaking upwards from the smouldering coals, where they deposit their little heaps of iron nodules with an even smaller sense of accomplishment.

Berk has undoubtedly seen better days. As they make their way through the empty streets, the group mark each scorch and gash layering the walls of their homes. Timber frames are lined with deep ridges, carved splinters framed in curled wood. Ladders rest against fire-eaten wood and tarps are pinned over partially repaired roofs. One irreparable house lies in a pile of its own cinders, further deconstructed and scavenged of parts by the army of small home repair Vikings.

They were attacked a few days ago, but —with any luck— it will be the last raid of the season. Dragons are habitual like that. Predictable like the phases of the moon, or the rhythm of the tide.

The forge master himself is still hobbling up the steps to the hall when the fire-brigade-slash-bog-farmers arrive. The man has been worked into the ground in the last couple of weeks and it shows — his face looks more haggard and his wrinkles have been drawn out in long creases that set his face in a permanent frown. His moustache is singed from a long and taxing day in the forge.

Showing Gustav Larson the ropes has been tough, but —despite his protests— Gobber needs an apprentice. Though he hadn't said it in so many words, it was clear that the blacksmith had not wanted to find a replacement for his first apprentice. But working alone was no longer an option for the aging Viking, so Gustav stepped in to take up the mantle. His first day was nothing short of disastrous (he'd pumped the bellows with such enthusiasm that he almost burnt the forge to the ground), but now things are almost business as usual.

_Almost_. Except the twinkle in Gobber's eye has dulled like the blade of an old axe. Hiccup —for all his quirks— made Gobber smile; they joked and joshed as they worked, riffing off each other in a lighthearted repartee. Now, the forge has lost its charm, a building of functionality rather than friendship.

"Hey, Gobber," Tuff greets the weathered teacher.

"You lot had a productive day, I hope?" he asks, though his tone doesn't sound particularly optimistic.

The teens exchange guilty looks. "Not exactly," says Astrid. "I think we're harvesting from the same area as last year, but these two—" she gestures to the twins, "—say I'm wrong. I wish we had Hiccup's journal. He made a note of the areas we'd searched, the areas that weren't worth searching, and even charted out where to go this year…" She trails off, realising just how much of what Hiccup actually did was taken for granted.

"I know what you mean, lass," says Gobber morosely. "Hiccup was brilliant — the forge is a mess without 'im. I can't find anything! My 'ands keep on getting misplaced… and yesterday, Gustav asked the difference between a rivet and a ball bearin'." The old blacksmith looks close to tears upon entering the crowded main hall. Tuff pats his back with uncharacteristic affection.

They collect plates of food from the pruney barmaids and find a free table where they can all eat together. But no one speaks, instead opting for pensive silence.

Losing Hiccup was difficult for everyone, but especially the teens. Growing up, they knew that one day their parent's war would become their own, but until a kid from their generation was taken by the beasts, that never really sank in. It shattered their youthful illusion of invulnerability, and —for the first time— they stared down their own fragile mortality. Each of them was shaken to the core, Astrid most of all.

But the blonde shieldmaiden isn't going to let it faze her anymore; Hiccup gave up his life for her and now she must live for the both of them; she has to make his sacrifice mean something beyond the stupid chivalric notion of heroism. When the dragons do return to Berk come next spring, she'll be ready.

Raising her mug, Astrid makes a toast to the boy who saved her life. "To Hiccup!" she says.

"To Hiccup!" they chorus.

* * *

"Hiccup! Hiccup, where are you?" Valka calls into the nursery, scanning the gathering of miniature dragons for her son.

"I'm over here!" replies a muffled, but distinctly nasally voice, softened with laughter.

Craning her neck, Valka spies a mop of auburn hair amidst the coloured scales of the new hatchlings. The woman follows the delightful timbre of laughter to where Hiccup sits cross-legged, surrounded by terrible terror babies. A grassy hatchling tumbles down his shin into his lap, imitating his chuckles in its own mischievously squeaky tongue. Another plays in his hair, grasping reddish tufts in its small claws to hold on.

Keeping his head still, Hiccup tries to look at Valka, but his eyes only reach as high as the hem of her skirt. Looking any higher would topple the tiny dragon riding on his head and he doesn't wish to interrupt playtime, even if he is the unwitting apparatus.

Likewise, Toothless has been roped into a game of tag by a gang of baby gronckles, and when they catch him, the trio of boulder class hatchlings bowl themselves down his sleek back and slide down his midnight tail.

The Bewilderbeast is 'supervising' the little ones, making sure they don't find themselves in too much trouble, and extinguishing the little fires cropping up with his icy breath. Even the Alpha dragon can't shake the boldest of them, and his huge tusks quickly become their favourite playthings.

"Well, hello there," coos Valka as she lifts the crimson hatchling free of his russet locks.

"So this is how dragons spend Snoggletog?" asks Hiccup, amazed.

"It's wonderful, isn't it," Valka agrees, letting an infant dragon nuzzle her calf. "It's my favourite time of year."

A young nadder ambles towards the pair of humans, shakily operating its bipedal body and listing forward with each unsteady step. It has a pair of golden eyes set in a small, round face and its heavy alabaster spiked crown throws off the hatchling's balance even more as he not-so-sneakily creeps over to join the fun. One misstep sends the turquoise reptile careening into Hiccup's side with a small _thump_ and an indignant _squark_ as he faceplants the nursery floor.

The young teen laughs, scooping up the baby under its wing joints and places him back on his feet. In one bound, the nadder leaps into Hiccup's small lap, snuggling into the crease of his noodle legs, and starts to _purr_ — a sweet pulsing rumble, shifting intensity with each full breath. Within moments he has fallen fast asleep.

"Okay —this is officially my favourite place on the whole island!" says Hiccup, face pulled into a wide smile and speaking quietly, as not to disturb the drowsy nadder.

A terror hatchling yawns in his ear, a tiny _mew_, and tumbles from his left shoulder into Hiccup's open palm. The terror giggles —or its own draconic mimicry— and spasms with the viking child's namesake. Who knew dragons could hiccup?

"I thought it might be," says Valka lovingly, helping her son untangle himself from the miniature nadder snoozing on his lap, and pulls him up on his feet.

Toothless bounds over, carefully tip-toeing around the smallest baby dragons, and knocks his head against Hiccup's knees, as if to remind the boy who the top dragon is. Hiccup laughs at his rivalric, childlike antics and confirms with scratches and pets who his best bud will always be.

"I brought you something," says Valka, pushing a round orb into his arms. "Happy Snoggletog, Hiccup."

Turning the object over in his hands, he realises it's not an orb at all, but a metal helmet, lined with fins along the dorsal. The black iron scatters the vibrant nursery light, filtering the hues into muted grey tones. It's a seriously cool piece of gear and the young ex-Viking is instantly enamored.

"It's to keep you safe on your travels," she says, rubbing at imagined smears on the metallic helmet with crystalline tears in her eyes.

"You mean, you're not coming?" Hiccup asks, confused.

Their original strategy was to scour the furthest reaches of the Archipelago together, in search of new riders to fight alongside them, but this festive gesture speaks of a change of plans.

"I have to stay here and hold down the fort until you get back. Don't get me wrong, I would love to travel the Archipelago —or the whole of Midgard— with you, my son… But there's so much to be done here at the sanctuary."

A part of her wishes that Hiccup won't leave — before, loneliness was a staple of the life she chose, but having Hiccup with her these last few weeks has reminded her of the pleasure of good company and she doesn't want to be alone again. But the Archipelago isn't waiting for them. The War won't end on its own and —as much as she wishes fate would choose someone else— Berk needs a hero like Hiccup, someone who will fight on their behalf in a war they've been losing for seven generations. Because Thor knows the island won't survive without him.

"I... understand. Thank you for the helmet, I'm sorry I didn't get you a gift," he apologises, rubbing the back of his neck ashamedly.

"The greatest gift is having you for a son," she waves dismissively, then takes his freckled face in her hands, pressing her cool palms against his flushed cheeks, red from her praise. "The Barbaric Archipelago is a dangerous place," the warrior inside her warns. "But there are friends and allies out there, if you know where to look."

"I'll do my best. I swear, I won't give up until the Red Death is gone and the dragons are free of her control. I'll save Berk and end the War," he vows — a serious oath that will charter the course of Hiccup's adventures for the next five years of his life…

* * *

**A/N:** I don't think I have to tell you that our TV got repaired… lol. That was actually a while ago, and I've just been a total couch potato since! Anyway, here is the long awaited(?) update :) I was going to do a few chapters about Hiccup recruiting an dragon riding army, but I can't think of enough content and it's mentioned in the summary, so no surprises there. Instead, I'm going to use a fan fiction favourite: time skip!

If you're still reading this stupidly long author's note, congratulations! I just wanna say, this chapter was a real pain to write as there are so many different angles to take about how Hiccup's 'death' changed Berk. I figured one chapter to give readers a sense of how things have started to deviate would be sufficient before moving on with the heart of this story.

As always, concrit is very welcome, and a shoutout to everyone who favorited/followed before my hiatus. A very big thank you to CajunBear73, atomicsub927 and a guest reviewer who I can't thank personally for all your encouraging reviews! Until next time…


	4. Chapter One: The Herbalist

**Title:** The Lost Heir

**Summary:** Hiccup goes through with his plan to run away, leaving behind no loose ends… or so he believes. After discovering the Nest, then fleeing North, Hiccup builds a utopia at the Dragon Sanctuary, working towards his ultimate goal: destroying the Queen. But no good deed goes unpunished and ghosts from his past are destined to resurface.

* * *

Chapter One: The Herbalist

* * *

The evening air is chilled by arctic winds, moving the woman's dark clothing wrapped loosely around her slender frame. Reaching upwards to grab hold of the next ridge, the fabric is pulled tight around her narrow shoulders, and her toes find footholes on a higher ledge with practised ease. She presses her body flush against the iced rock face, the gale force at her back, and adjusts her grip.

Below, the sea churns in tumultuous waves.

Where two mammoth icicles intersect, the climbing plane switches to a dizzying, near horizontal, inverted ascent. The woman unhooks a pair of twin daggers from her belt and continues to drag herself upwards, using their bite as purchase. Pulling herself over the frozen precipice, she's able to catch a shuddering breath.

Her vantage overlooks the desolate ocean, with the shadowed mouth of a dangerous-looking cavern falling open behind her. The sun paints the sky a burnt orange, the kind that washes the sea in an ashy darkness —the illusion of daylight.

The woman tugs her black scarf higher up her face, covering her mouth and nose with the fabric; a thief in the night. Her azure eyes glimmer with raw determination. Turning her back on the horizon, she vanishes inside the cavern, her footsteps light and quick.

Inside, the ice is packed against solid rock, polished into a level walkway that leads into the centre of a mountain fortress. The finished entryway illuminates the end of the tunnel in artificial light, drawing out her shadow behind her. She stops short of the opening, pausing to check if the coast is clear, before stepping out into a sequestered oasis.

Elevated above a sprawling hidden city, she charts out her surroundings, as if she has arrived at a battlefront rather than a tropical haven.

A vast city rises out of an oceanic pocket, trapped within the belly of the mountain like the hulking form of a leviathan. _Ísfjall_ —the arctic stronghold.

Planted on a bed of stilt-like foundations, hundreds of buildings appear to float below, mirrored perfectly in the still waters. Each structure offers something different —balconies, porches, terraces— all new builds, untouched by the meridian's elemental wrath. They can afford to be more ornate in design, with decorative gables and fancy shutters. Larger than any houses back home, they give the city an impressive, indomitable vibe.

Instead of pathways, little river boats drift along gridded canals, weaving between stilted huts, temples and installations —like fountains and quartz statues— cemented in the sea bed.

The city unfolds in all directions; upwards into the roof of the caldera, where a network of rope bridges are suspended from above; and down into subterranean catacombs —or perhaps festering outwards from its roots within the spooky ruins, a plague on the archipelago. Construction has crept up the cavern walls, like poison ivy, and open walkways span the inner rock face, connecting smaller buildings hollowed into the inner stone mountainside.

But that's not what holds her attention.

Hundreds of winged creatures swarm above the cityscape, prowling the streets and haunting the tides: dragons. Ísfjall is notorious for training dragons, befriending them even, something the woman feels to be an insult to the fallen. The people look so tiny from this perspective, dwarfed by their reptilian companions, but she knows they aren't like her in any respect, save for their outward human-like masquerades...

They must be demons, or children of Jotnar, or something equally unnatural. Shivers run down her spine at their proximity and she clasps the talisman strung around her neck, warding off the evil miasmas of this place. Her trespass this evening weighs little on her conscience.

Torches are quickly replacing the melting daylight as the day winds down, and the woman moves with the new darkness.

Parapets connect the tunnels pooling into the city limits and she crouches below the line of castellations to avoid being spotted by the city guards stationed along the battlements. They're clad in unique black armour, inked with the Ísfjallan crest, and armed to the teeth. But it isn't the guards that scare her; there's only one _thing_ rumoured to be on this island that she fears…

The woman has always had an affinity for stealth, sprinting past the oblivious guards without raising the alarm, and at last comes upon the place she set out to find — the apex of her mission: the botanical gardens.

A shaft of moonlight spills into an open-roofed cavern. The faint chirp of crickets floats through the air, a chorus of serenity, and the stars twinkle in the velvety sky. The gardens are unlike anything to be found on her home island, lush and perfectly manicured. Sown into the earth is every species of plant she's familiar with, and many exotic ones she's never seen before.

She inspects the sprigs, quick fingers gliding over the plants in search of one specific flower —the one thing she believes can save her tribe, her family…

There, between the _catsear _and the _hawksbeard_. Pushing her fingers into the soil, she starts to pull up the star-shaped plant, roots and all. But her thievery is suddenly cut short.

She's tackled from the side, strong arms pin her to the ground, and her chin collides solidly with the dirt, rattling her teeth. Her attacker places all his weight on her back, leaving her winded, and straddles her hips, keeping her down.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's wrong to steal?" asks a textured voice, whispered into her ear. It belongs to a young man, sounding low and cocky.

Her heart hammers in her chest. "I have no problem stealing from you and your kind!" she manages to say, her defiant voice strained.

He twists her arms tighter around her back, shifting his weight. "Spoken like a true criminal," he comments. "Now, we can do this the easy way —where you tell me _exactly_ who you are and where you come from— or the hard way, thief." His last word has bite, chipping at her pride.

She keeps a sour silence, thrashing at the ground and kicking up dirt, but not able to break free of his iron grip. Her ebony scarf mask is loosened by her struggles and it slips down her face, still tied at her neck but no longer concealing her pretty features. She twists her body to snarl at the man, matching his heated gaze.

"Ast…" he breathes, forming what sounds like the start of her name, then trails off into a whisper.

At a glance, he doesn't look inhuman, instead the rapid softening of his features washes him with a sudden surprised vulnerability. Emerald eyes grow wide and his chiselled jaw hangs slack, lips slightly parted. Seeing an opportunity, the woman forces him off and flips them both over, flattening a leafy coriander plant under his broad chest.

"What about _my way_? " she chooses, pink lips forming a smirk. "My tribe needs this flower. I _won't _fail them."

She twirls her family's dagger between her fingers, the cold iron glinting in the moonlight. Her teal eyes dart to the flat of the blade, the weapon reflects a band of a face she doesn't recognise, warped with hate. She's never taken before.

But before she can steel herself, he speaks again. He's frightened but composed enough to bargain for his life. "You won't make it out of here on your own," he tells her.

"I'll take my chances," she says, almost flippantly, moving the dagger to his throat.

"I can help you." The offer catches her off guard and strangely, there's no reluctance in his tone.

"What makes you think I'd _ever_ trust you?" she hisses, tightening her grip, knuckles turning white.

"Your tribe is sick," he says as if this is reason enough to accept his help.

"Freja's Fever," she confirms tonelessly. "A ship brought it to our island a fortnight ago, if I don't return this to my people, they'll die. Which is _exactly _why I won't risk trusting you." She presses her kneecap into his kidney and he groans in pain —that's what he gets for trying to pull the wool over her eyes.

"Owch! —Wait, _Freja's Fever_? That won't help them," he says, casting his eyes at the half-uprooted plant. "You Vikings think maythen[1]is some miracle cure-all. You'll need a compound elixir of something much stronger for a sickness like that."

"Nice try, but give me one good reason I should believe you," she challenges.

"Well for starters I'm a herbalist. But not just your regular, run-of-the-mill herbalist —_oh no!_ I've studied medicine in every corner of Midgard, so believe me when I say, I know my shit," he says smartly.

The woman chews her lip, thinking. "Okay, make me a proper cure, but hurry. No stalling."

She slides off his back and lets him stand, but keeps her knife close to his side. His eyes drop to the weapon and he gulps.

"Incentive," she tells him.

"Gotta love that no-nonsense Viking way," he comments wryly.

He's at least a head taller than her but lanky and not heavy-set. He's dressed in a loose-fitting green shirt with a leather apron tied around his waist. Gardening tools —hand trowels, digging forks and turf knives— are all stuffed in the front pocket and it's rumpled with dirt. His auburn hair is pushed away from his face by a red bandana. He sports a split lip and wipes his bloodied chin with the back of his protective glove.

He doesn't look threatening, but appearances can often be deceiving. Weedy fishbones can shape up to be prodigies and skinny herbalists can turn out to be cold-blooded killers.

They move around the garden slowly as he gathers the plants needed for the herbal remedy, placing the florets in the fold of his apron. He leads her over to a wooden table where he starts to turn the scented plants into a thick paste. The only noise is the soft scrape of the pestle in the mortar.

"How do you know my name?" she asks, cutting through the heavy silence. "Earlier, you said it right before I pinned you. How?" Her tone is sharp, accusatory.

"Huh? Oh— uh, I didn't. I was saying… asteraceae[2]. It's the name of the family of plants you were stealing from." he doesn't look up from the dish, but he slows his grinding and waits for her to reply.

"Right," she mumbles, seeming to accept his answer.

He sighs. "So… what is your name?" he asks lightly. She doesn't bother answering him —too focused to humour the Jotnar-spawn. "Alright, I'll guess it. Is it _Astra_? —divinely beautiful. Now wouldn't that be a good fit?" He playfully winks at her.

"Don't make me hurt you," she warns, a scowl printed on her features.

"Okay, is it _Astlyr_?" She shakes her head. "No? Err… how about Astlyrd?" he guesses again. "I'm close aren't I?"

"If I tell you, will you _shut up_? She asks exasperatedly. He nods, yes. "... It's Astrid."

"Astrid," he echoes, testing out the name on his own tongue. "It suits you," he tells her. "You can call me 'H'." He adds another ingredient into the mix.

He's toying with her, acting all friendly, and she's naturally cautious and guarded.

"Does that stand for Hit-In-The-Head-One-Too-Many-Times?" she shoots. Clearly, he's a few Vikings short of a full raid.

"Actually it's short for Handed-Your-Ass-To-You," he sasses back.

"Oh really? 'Cos the way I remember it, _I_ was the one who beat _you_," she says, riled up.

"After I had you pinned," he reminds her rather smugly, pouring the mush into phials and stuffing stoppers into their necks.

Before she can object, he pushes two dozen cures into her hands. "Here. Think it will be enough?" H sounds genuinely concerned, but she isn't fooled.

She places them inside the pouch at her hip and nods. "Now get me out of here," she orders hotly. "Try anything and I won't hesitate to kill you. Understa—ahh!"

A sharp shriek cuts through her threat and a black shadow falls over the garden, blotting out the stars.

"Night Fury! Get Down!" Astrid yells instinctively.

"Oh—for the love of Thor," he groans under his breath, apprehensive, but oddly unafraid. "This way!"

H grabs her hand and drags her to the edge of the cavern, trampling neat rows of herbs underfoot. The botanical gardens lead back out onto the parapets ringing the city. He climbs on a castellation, pulling Astrid up behind him, and starts to loosen the ties of his leather apron. Yanking it over his head, he balls it up and tosses it over his shoulder.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, giving her a lopsided smile.

The dragon roars behind them, shaking the ground.

"Not even a little," she answers candidly.

He grins. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Then —before she can ask why— H scoops her up bridal-style and drops her over the edge of the battlements. The plummet sends her stomach on a trip to her throat, but her landing isn't the sickening, bone-shattering _splat _she imagined.

Instead, a _splash _greets her at the end of her fall. She lands in the canals, a stream of curses escaping her lips. H dives after her, entering the water a few feet away. He bobs up, shaking out his liony maine and runs a hand over his face to clear the droplets. His lashes stick together, framing brilliantly green eyes that blink owlishly at her.

She sends an angry wave of water over his head. "What is _wrong_ with you!?"

Above, the castellation crumbles beneath the dragon's weight and dust falls into the canal. They start kicking towards the nearest house, but the Night Fury doesn't give up chasing them. H pulls himself up onto the porch, offering Astrid his hand out of the water, but she knocks it away and gets out on her own.

Grabbing hold of the balcony of the adjacent home, H swings up onto the roof and Astrid follows, shadowing his movements. They bolt across the rooftops, managing to outrun the fearsome beast… until Astrid's foot catches on a loose roof tile, sending her sailing over the edge. She yelps as the canal rises to meet her.

But H skids over, grabbing her wrist before she falls, and swiftly pulls her back up. He's stronger than he looks, lifting her with just one arm.

Bat-like wings beat behind them, growing closer, replaced by the sound of taloned feet over stone tiles as it gives chase on all fours. There's a watery plaza up ahead, leaving the pair no way of crossing over to the next roof. Thinking fast, H takes Astrid's hand again, leaping off the roof and onto a little punt boat floating in the plaza. The startled occupants clutch the benches as the boat tilts wildly to the side, threatening to spill them overboard.

"It's the Dragon Master!" exclaims the ferryman, steadying his pole against the silt of the sea bed.

Astrid glances over her shoulder —and sure enough— there he is; the dreaded Dragon Master. Cold fear grips her stomach, and her heart beats erratically in her chest. She's heard rumours of the chief of Ísfjall, the one who rides the Night Fury.

Before she can get a good look at the black shape hunting them down, H swipes the man's pole, twirling Astrid in close before vaulting them to the next punt. They cross the plaza in this fashion —hopping between the riverboats— until they reach the line of verandas on the other side. A short sprint finds them at a gated section of the canal, leading out to the city docks.

The air outside of the mountain is freezing, like taking a polar plunge into the ocean, and their sodden clothes are heavy with chilled water. They run across the jetties, passing a startled fisherman and his pet thunderdrum.

"Dragon Master!?" he calls out in shock. The thunderdrum follows their escape with a yellowed, beady eye.

The Dragon Master is going to catch them before they make it out of the harbour, Astrid can feel it.

H leads her to a small-ish boat, sleek and fast, built for speed and emptied of cargo. "Get on," he tells her, loosening the ropes from the mooring poles and tossing the slack inside the boat.

"It's the fastest ship on the whole island. The Dragon Master designed it himself," says H proudly. His hand glides over the hull with a certain out-of-place fondness.

She positions herself at the rudder as he unties the white sails. The wind immediately catches the fabric and the mini-longship starts to pull out of the harbour, caught in a current and quickly accelerating. The winds are fair and the sea has calmed to the perfect sailing conditions. Then, H steps off the deck and back onto the jetty.

"What are you doing?!" she yells, surprising herself with her desperate tone.

"I'll hold him off," he calls over to the stern.

"NO! He'll kill you! Get back on the Thor-damned boat, H!" She pounds her fist on the rudder, urging him back on board. But he refuses to listen. He must be even crazier than she first believed.

H shakes his head, no. "I'll take my chances, Milady. Go save your tribe!" His figure is getting smaller by the second, shrinking in the distance.

Fearlessly, he turns around to face the midnight form of the most dangerous creature in the Archipelago. It pins him to the ground and opens its pink maw, armoured with white teeth. She can't look as the beast mauls him, probably shredding his freckled skin and slicing him into rashers of H-bacon.

She slumps against the rudder, waiting for the Night Fury to land on deck, claws bloodied and teeth stained red from the kill. She waits to face down the devil himself, riding on its back… but he never comes.

The night air is silent and the stars shine uninterrupted by shadows all the way back to Berk.

* * *

**[1]** 'Maythen' or chamomile really was a medicine used in Viking times. It's usually used to cure upset stomachs, which is why it wouldn't be particularly effective over the fictional illness Freja's Fever.

**[2]** For reference, asteraceae are a family of daisy type plants. The flower heads look a bit like stars, which is where they get their name from.

* * *

**A/N:** Welcome back to another instalment of The Lost Heir. After re-thinking the plot, I realised that the old title didn't really fit anymore and the new one reflects the direction the story is now going to take. All I can say is that it will differ from most running away fics and be very twisty…

A special thank you goes out to Loralie Gold Dream, OechsnerC and Herbert Alexander for your encouraging reviews, as well as everyone else who followed/favourited this story. I have to confess… I'm sorta winging this, but that does mean anything can happen, so reviews have real power over the story!


	5. Chapter Two: A Boat Named Astrid

**Title:** The Lost Heir

**Summary:** Hiccup goes through with his plan to run away, leaving behind no loose ends… or so he believes. After discovering the Nest, then fleeing north, Hiccup builds a utopia at the Dragon Sanctuary, working towards his ultimate goal: destroying the Queen. But no good deed goes unpunished and ghosts from his past are destined to resurface.

* * *

**CajunBear73:** I just want to say, I love the way you comment. It really helps me see how things are coming across to readers and I'm glad you've picked up on the contrasts/comparisons I've been drawing. Thank you!

**OechsnerC:** Thank you :) I've had that chapter planned out for a while and I'm really glad you enjoyed it!

**Cadet staff-srgJAG19:** Thank you :) Astrid didn't recognise Hiccup mainly because he's changed so much. In the books, when Hiccup infiltrates the Amber Slavelands after being gone for even less time, Stoick couldn't recognise him either. Besides, Astrid thinks Hiccup is dead, so she wouldn't be looking for him in the face of someone who's alive.

**Guest:** Thank you!

**Guest:** Woah, that's a lot!

**ThomasTheHuman:** Thank you so much. It means a lot that you think this is different to other stories :)

**Loralie Gold Dream:** Believe me, it's only going to get more dramatic!

* * *

Chapter Two: A Boat Named Astrid

* * *

The sky is lightened with the impression of dawn by the time Raven Point is in Astrid's sights again. She looks up at the cliffs, just able to make out the silhouetted figures of the Night Guard. Rousing shouts sound from the collection of Vikings as they spot the strange ship sailing into the Berkian Harbor; it's not one of their own fleet, it's different; it's dangerous.

"Wait!" Astrid calls up. "Don't sink me! It's Astrid!" She waves her arms in a wide arc above her head.

There's a pregnant pause as she's left wondering if they've even heard her or if instead they're readying the catapults. But then, tiny specs of orange torchlight skip along the rickety walkway, winding down to sea level to meet her. Each light belongs to one of her friends; the slowest light is held steady by stalwart Fishlegs; a second, deliberately more impressive flame in Snotlout's grip; and one each for the twins, flickering erratically and leading the procession down to the old docks.

She weighs anchor, the dented metal plunging into the inky depths and burying itself deeply into the reef. Tuff tosses her his torch and uses his now-freed hands to loop the ropes around the moorings.

"A! We thought you were an enemy ship, I was totally gonna sink you!" says Tuffnut with a snicker, leaning back on his heels and dragging the ship to butt up against the jetty.

"It would've been pretty ironic if she made it to Ísfjall —the home of dragons and demons!— got the maythen, and _almost _made it to shore… only to be sunk by us this close to home, right bro?" says Ruff, wrapping her arms around Tuff's waist, helping him to pull in the most unhelpful way and with her torch spitting embers over Tuff's hairy waistcoat.

"You did get the maythen, right Astrid?" asks Fish worriedly, the creases in his forehead deepened by the orange firelight.

Astrid hasn't spoken yet and Fish is clearly anxious that this means that she hasn't been able to complete her mission. If she's returned empty handed, they all know it will spell disaster for the entire tribe, for all of their families.

"Not exactly," she admits, vaulting over the side of the ship to stand on the jetty alongside her friends. Her hope-filled smile does little to lessen the tense atmosphere.

"What do you mean 'not exactly'?" questions Snot, getting antsier by the second. "It's very much a yes or no question!" His frustration isn't meant for Astrid, but she knows this —they're all tired and very stressed, so his short fuse is not unwarranted.

"Don't worry —I _do _have a cure. It was specially made to treat Freja's Fever," she tells them, flipping open her satchel and revealing the stack of cures nestled inside. Miraculously, they've all managed to survive the rooftop chase unchipped and unbroken.

"Where did you get those?" Fish asks. She obviously didn't just find them lying around someplace in the Botanical Gardens.

"I… the city herbalist. He discovered me, but I got the upper hand. He—he traded his life for those cures," she says solemnly. It's a half-truth, one she isn't ready to reveal in its entirety just yet. She needs to sort out her jumbled-up feelings first.

Besides, telling them the whole truth might lead them to doubt the elixor. But Astrid _knows_ it will work; it has to.

The realisation of how much she trusted H comes as a belated surprise to Astrid. There were so many opportunities for him to fail her, allow her to be caught by the Dragon Master and his Night Fury or let her fall from that roof. But he hadn't. He is the only reason she's standing here now —back on home soil— holding the cure to Freja's Fever.

She vows to _never_ forget his kindness.

"How did you escape?" asks Snotlout, anticipating an epic tale of her flight from the mountain fortress, full of action, awesomeness and general butt-kicking.

"I stole a ship and got the hell out of there," she supplies, purposefully vague and a little anticlimactic.

Snot's face falls. But then —catching sight of the ship in question— he fully appraises the magnificent vessel moored behind Astrid and all of a sudden his excitement returns tenfold.

"Woah! Cool ship…" says Snot, already moving to step on board, illuminating the deck space with his torch.

"Not so fast, Snotty," says Ruff. "This is an enemy ship —it ought to be sent to the bottom of the harbor! And I know the perfect Vikings to undertake such a task." Tuff looks at her blankly. "Us, yak-for-brains!" he exclaims, flicking him between the eyes.

"Right!" Tuff quickly agrees, very much liking the prospect of destroying something.

"—But it's such a pretty boat!" Snotlout protests wildly, latching on to the sculpted rudder and refusing to let go.

Astrid is struck with the distinct impression that if the twins want to sink the ship, they'll have to go through Snot first. But knowing the twins, that will only make them want to sink it all the more, preferably with the stubborn Viking still on board.

While the trio of young Vikings are squabbling amongst themselves, Fishlegs pulls Astrid aside, a quizzical look plastered on his rounded face.

"Was that why you picked this ship?" he asks quietly, nodding his head to the side of the hull.

Astrid isn't sure what he means because she didn't _pick_ anything —H was the one who showed her to the fastest ship in the harbor. In the heat of the moment, she didn't have the luxury of being picky or selective —they were being chased by a bloodthirsty dragon for Thor's sake, she would've taken a dinghy if she had to!

"What do you mean?" she asks.

Fishlegs points to something glinting on the hull, his expression entirely unreadable. She tracks his gaze, her own eyes falling on the gold runes decorating the laquer. It reads:

_The Astrid_

This is too weird. How in Midgard did _this _ship come to have _her _name printed on its side? She moves in to take a closer look and runs her fingers over the paintwork. It doesn't fade or wipe away; it's really there, but how?

_Designed by the Dragon Master himself…_

She studies the shape of each rune in the amber light, H's last words ringing in her ears. It seemed to be of little importance when he mentioned it before, but what if it actually means something…? No, it must be a coincidence, there's no other explanation. There are any number of reasons why the Dragon Master may have named his boat _The Astrid_, none of which place any connection between herself and that monster.

"I hadn't even seen that." Astrid shrugs dismissively, trying to shake the discomfort caused by those runes.

"If you say so," replies Fishlegs, oblivious to her unsettled feelings, still marvelling at the eerie coincidence.

"Come on guys, we've got a job to do. These cures need to be taken to Gothi so she can treat the sick," says Astrid, briskly changing the subject.

"Don't worry, A," says Tuff. "We'll take them to Gothi. You should see the Chief, let him know you're back." He takes the satchel from the blonde, leaving her with just one of the phials.

"Thanks guys."

Their paths diverge at the top of Raven Point, away from the docks, with Astrid leaving to treat the chief and the others heading over to Gothi's healing hut.

Haddock Hall is by far the finest house on the Island. But it hasn't been a _home_ for many years, not really. It's the oldest building on the island too, imbued with more history than any other family hall —in recent times, a very sad history, one of loss, grief and despair. As Astrid crests the hill, she sucks in a breath as she takes in the dark oak façade. She pauses on the stoop and bites her lip, then pushes open the front door.

Inside, the hall is even more haunting, full of bittersweet memories of the lost heir. The dying embers of the hearth have left the interior shadowy and dim. A horned helmet is hung over the hearth bar, but the owner is nowhere in sight. Following the deep rumbles of her chief's snores, Astrid finds the man bundled up in layers of blankets in the back room. Slick perspiration dampens his brow, but violent shivers wrack his body with each ragged breath.

"Chief…" she whispers, trying to softly wake him.

He rolls over, stubbornly turning his back to her.

"Chief Stoick…" she tries again, louder this time.

"Later… Son, I'm… sleeping," he murmurs, almost too quietly for her to pick up on. But she does and it makes her heart ache.

Part of her doesn't want to wake him. The fever has taken him to a time before Hiccup was lost and pulling him back to reality seems cruel. But his condition is getting worse and unless he takes the medicinal remedy soon, there's a chance she may never be able to wake him.

"Stoick!" she yells, shaking his shoulders.

He startles awake, red eyes growing wide. It takes a moment for him to register his surroundings and —when he does— his shoulders sag and his whole body slumps.

"Astrid, you're back…" he manages. His usually strong voice is aged with fragility. "Did you get it?" he asks weakly.

She nods, producing the green phial. "Drink this," she tells him.

He examines the green tonic dubiously. Popping the cork, he gives its contents an investigatory sniff and his lips turn down in a frown. Astrid places her hands on her hips in warning and —not without a grouch— he downs it in one gulp, sputtering in disgust.

"That was _not_ maythen," he complains, smacking his chapped lips together and shooting her a faux-betrayed look.

"No, but I've been told it's what you need," she replies evenly, pouring him a cup of water from the jug resting on his nightstand.

He hastily gulps it down to be rid of the awful taste. "You could've warned me, lass." Already he's sitting up straighter in bed, eyes aglow with his signature fighting spirit. After a moment, he asks, "_Who_ told you so?"

"I was… apprehended while searching for the maythen," she confesses ashamedly. She had come _so_ close to failing their tribe because she hadn't been careful enough. "He was just a herbalist, so I was able to get the upper hand and I had him pinned. I made him make me up some proper cures and I was going to bring him here—"

"You didn't bring one of those—those demons here, did you…?" he's quickly turning an apoplectic shade of red at the thought.

"No, chief. But I would've, else I couldn't be sure the cures could be trusted," she assures.

He seems to accept this as a reasonable defence, but to say he was happy would be a stretch. "So what happened to him?" he asks with a huff.

"Once he'd made up the cures, that's when we were discovered. The Dragon Master chased us through the city, but he helped me get to the docks. I don't know why; he could've turned me over to the Dragon Master, but he didn't." Her voice audibly softens. "The herbalist, H, showed me to the fastest ship on the island… but he stayed behind to hold off the beast so that I could get away; so that I could save our tribe." Stoick's expression is steadily getting stonier. He clearly has no sympathy for H —even if he did play a part in delivering the tribe from harm— and hearing this story isn't helping his now-volatile temperament. "That's when the Night Fury caught up. It killed H," she finishes, her voice wavering in sadness.

"Of course it did." The chief is decidedly unsurprised. "That boy was a fool for thinking dragons could be trusted. He got what he deserved," says Stoick gruffly, trying to snap Astrid out of her melancholy funk, but only upsetting her more. As far as he's concerned, the boy isn't worthy of his top warrior's pity.

"He saved my life!" Astrid protests, adamant that H was good, selfless even.

"Yes, _he_ did," Stoick's tone sobers as his words take on another meaning. "So we ought to honour him." He's no longer talking about the unfortunate herbalist from Ísfjall, but his own son. "So the rumours really are true: that blasted Night Fury really is on that Thor-forsaken island?" Stoick questions, locking eyes with the blonde shieldmaiden.

"I'd recognise that monster anywhere," Astrid confirms with a nod.

A dark shadow crosses Stoick's features. "I'm going to kill that dragon, Astrid. Are you with me?" he asks. He makes the task sound unrealistically simple, but semantics have no place in Stoick's inspirational speeches.

"Just give the order, chief."

* * *

"Listen... Stoick…" Gobber starts delicately. "I was overhearing some of the men just now and, well, some of them are wondering what it is we're up to here —not me of course, I know you're always the man with the plan— but some, not me, are wondering if there is in fact a plan at all, what it might be?"

The old blacksmith shuffles uncomfortably under his chief's heated stare. The entire village has noted a change in Stoick since his recovery. He's quick to anger, as if someone has lit a fire within him and not even cool-headed Astrid has been able to extinguish it. That's why only now —when they're sailing the high seas on a northerly heading— does Gobber have the nerve to question him.

"Raid Ísfjall and kill the Dragon Master." Disparaging venom coats the moniker, as if the notion brings personal insult. And it probably does.

"Ah. Of course. Do what Vikings do best. Nice and simple," says Gobber, feigning enthusiasm.

When Stoick moves away, the blacksmith casts his eye over the greying waves, rapidly losing their shimmer in the fading daylight. Gobber doesn't think it's simple at all. He couldn't see how they'd ever get close enough to their target, let alone send him straight to Helheim like Stoick was suggesting.

Sensing his discomfort, Astrid traverses the deck to speak with her old teacher. The crew could all agree that a friend of dragons is no friend of theirs, but looking for a fight after years of relative peace with dragons, like a lull in a torrential storm, didn't sit well with everyone. Gobber ―for one— was clearly doubting.

"You're afraid," she states, blatantly straightforward as ever.

"I won't lie ta you, lass. We all are. There's something th' chief isn't telling us." It isn't just the absence of a workable plan, though that does worry him. Something about the Raid feels personal, more so than retaliation for seven generations of war.

Astrid sighs. "He should've told _you_ of all people what we're really doing here," she says, rubbing her temples.

"So he does have a plan?" He lowers his voice, making sure the chief doesn't overhear, but that doesn't mask his genuine surprise.

"Yes, but it's hard for him to talk about. I would've thought… never mind." Astrid deliberately stops herself, but she needn't bother; Gobber knows exactly what she was going to say.

"Y'know we don' talk like we used to. He defers ta you more tha' me nowadays."

It may be because Gobber's getting on in years and perhaps Stoick feels his judgement to be failing. It may be because their talks consisted mainly of parental advice, something Stoick no longer has need for. Or it may be because ―to Stoick at least― Astrid represents his son's sacrifice, and by association, his son. Whatever it is, it has formed an unspoken rift between the two friends, while Astrid finds herself being relied upon more and more often.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "Oh, don' be."

Deciding Gobber deserves to know the real stakes, Astrid says, "This whole mission… it's for Hiccup. Everything Johann told us last winter is true; there really is a Night Fury on that Island. I saw it."

"You think it's the same one tha'… tha'…" Gobber's mouth is dry and he finds it hard to finish.

"Yes, I do. Stoick wants the beast dead." She pauses, the image of H pinned beneath its midnight form enters her mind's eye. "So do I." _For both of them._

"Count me in," he returns easily. "But how will we even get close?"

Astrid chews her lip. "Stoick's going to claim weregild for Hiccup. Viking law dictates that the Dragon Master will have to negotiate terms with Stoick… and that's when the chief will make his move."

"Well providing tha' place even abides by such things as _laws_, it's a bloody fantastic plan," says Gobber, his tone dripping with condescension.

To the blacksmith, it seems highly unlikely that a place full of demons and their dragons would have any kind of rules, let alone subscribe to _Viking law _of all things. Besides, no amount of blood money could ever make up for losing Hiccup.

_Didn't anyone ever tell you it's wrong to steal?_ H asked her.

_Spoken like a true criminal… _

A strange choice of words coming from a land without law, thinks Astrid. It seems poetic that H should be the one to inspire her plan because he seemed to make everything up on the fly, without any shape of a plan at all.

She narrows her eyes on the distant horizon. "Trust me, Gobber, this is our ticket inside."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for coming back for another chapter! So many new readers have joined the adventure, so thank you everyone who followed or favourited! We're almost at 100 followers and I could not be happier!

As always, concrit is very welcome, so please review if you feel so inclined :)


	6. Chapter Three: The Weregild

**Title:** The Lost Heir

**Summary:** Hiccup goes through with his plan to run away, leaving behind no loose ends… or so he believes. After discovering the Nest, then fleeing north, Hiccup builds a utopia at the Dragon Sanctuary, working towards his ultimate goal: destroying the Queen. But no good deed goes unpunished and ghosts from his past are destined to resurface.

* * *

Chapter Three: The Weregild

* * *

Valka thought it would be the perfect time for an evening flight; the stars were out, the winds were exciting, and Cloudjumper was itching to get out in the skies. Now she realises she couldn't have picked a more inopportune moment even if she'd been trying, she's missed all the action. The moment she's back within the city limits, and before Cloudjumper's talons have even touched solid ground, everyone is asking her about the mystery girl.

Of course, Ísfjall gets its fair share of visitors, drawing travellers from all around the globe like moths to a flame, being a hub of culture and innovation. But this girl was… unconventional, to say the least. Apparently, she just appeared out of nowhere, then —joined by her son no less— tore through the city, with an over-excited Toothless at their heels.

How many times does she have to tell Hiccup not to play chase with a twenty-six-foot long reptile through the residential district? He was most definitely his father's son; stubborn and boar-headed! She's received countless complaints of broken shingles, spooked dragons, damage to the northern castellations, and four ferrymen were stranded in the plaza after _somebody _swiped their poles. Three guesses as to who that was.

Then she hears that once the two of them made it out on the docks, Hiccup helped this girl to steal his own boat. She has no idea what to tell her people when they ask _what in Midgard got into Hiccup?_ She simply does not know.

Last time they spoke, he told her he was going to check up on the botanical gardens before turning in, and now this? Valka needs answers …Okay, fine, Valka wants to gossip. Because she also heard that the mystery girl happened to be very pretty.

She finds Hiccup in his quarters —one of the only rooms in the city built into the original caves. Like her own, there's a tunnel leading to an external landing, but the heart of the space is still geothermally warmed to the perfect temperature. Even so, Hiccup is shivering and there's a cold puddle forming at his feet.

"Hiccup, you're soaked! What happened?" she asks.

He puffs out his cheeks, thinking. "Err… I went for a dip in the canals…?" he tries.

Valka can't tell if he's being serious or just evasive. "You know that's not what I meant. People are saying you let some girl take _The Astrid_. Is this true?"

Hiccup spent months designing that ship —agonising over every detail— until finally, the hours paid off, birthing _The Astrid_. It's easily the prettiest ship Valka has ever seen, and she knows how proud Hiccup was of his finished design.

They planned to construct a whole fleet and market them to visiting tradespeople, but without the prototype, they have nothing to show prospective investors. Such a venture would have gone a long way in the ongoing war effort, so losing _The Astrid _makes for a damaging setback. But Hiccup must have a good reason for this, right?

"Well, yes —but I had to, Mom. That girl, she was from Berk. She was here for a cure to Freja's Fever, I had no choice. She was scared, she needed to get the cure back to Berk as quickly as possible. And you —you useless reptile— thought we were playing chase!" Hiccup turns to his dragon and waggles his finger chidingly. "We probably gave her a real scare all over again!"

He runs his hands through his hair and leans heavily on Toothless like he does whenever he's frustrated.

"Oh… This wouldn't happen to be the same girl from the cove all those years ago, would it?" Valka asks knowingly.

A crimson blush creeps up Hiccup's neck. They don't often talk about home, but Valka knows about Astrid. She knows about how Hiccup 'saved' her from the Night Fury, as well as her being Hiccup's childhood crush, though he hasn't ever told her so. It's just obvious from how he speaks of her… as well as the boat thing. Yeah, the boat thing was the real clincher.

"How did you know?"

"Mother's intuition. Plus you have that adorable dopey grin." She touches his cheek lovingly. "You're quite smitten with her, aren't you?"

He grows redder and pulls away, shaking his head. "I just wish I could've explained everything, but there wasn't a good time. Obviously, the fastest way back to Berk would've been by dragon, but getting her to trust one, let alone _bond_ with one, well you know exactly how well that would've gone down… And chances are they would've been shot down before even getting close to Berk."

She does know. The last time sanctuary dragons went anywhere near Berk, they were repelled by projectiles. Worst of all? Berkians are now using Hiccup's own designs alongside the catapults as if those things don't already pack enough of a punch.

The raids are effectively over, so any dragons caught in the crossfires nowadays aren't even hostile. Though the Berkians don't know that, of course. But will they ever see the truth? Valka still isn't sure.

"Aren't we forgetting that Astrid must have had a boat of her own?" Valka asks softly.

Hiccup shrugs. "Mine would've gotten her home faster."

"—Unless they sunk her for flying our colours," she reminds, placing her hand on her hip.

"They don't even know what our colours are," he ripostes. "Berkians have no idea we have ships of our own."

And why would they? It's no secret what most of the archipelago thinks about Ísfjall. They think they're savages, demons, traitors. Not civilised. Not skilled. Not like them in any way. What use would they have for ships when they ride on dragon back, and if all they do is cause trouble within the barbaric archipelago? The idea of these people taking voyages was simply too far fetched for those small-minded Vikings.

Valka sighs, rubbing her temples. "Correction: _had a _ship of our own."

"I still have schematics, it's a minor setback." He gestures to the bundle of papers strewn across his desk.

He's right, she supposes, so she'll let it slide. Though Hiccup isn't off the hook just yet.

"And you're sure she didn't recognise you?" Valka presses. "Because if she did…" she trails off. Valka can't even begin to catastrophize the implications if that were to happen.

"Pretty sure, yeah. But, I mean… they're gonna find out eventually. They all are," he mumbles —the only indication that he recognises the subject as a sore spot.

Valka shakes her head. "I really think you should rethink things, Hiccup. They won't accept you, not as I do. Not like _we _all do. Everyone respects you here, son. Why give that up?"

"Because they're family too. I left because I had to. They weren't ready back then —for you o-or me, or any of this—" He pets Toothless' head, and the dragon gives an affectionate croon, slowing the boy's frantic monologue. "—but they will be. We can show them."

Valka thinks Hiccup is far too naïve, and that one day, it'll come back to bite him. She's only trying to protect him, really, she is.

"Sure, we can show them. But they just won't listen… Believe me, I've tried." She places a consoling hand on his shoulder.

She knows this answer won't satisfy him. Because until he's tried for himself; until he's given it his all, he won't accept it. It's just who he is, and Valka dearly hopes he never changes. So they agree to disagree, like always, and she continues to silently pray that the day Hiccup decides to return to Berk never arrives.

* * *

The touchy subject of Berk doesn't arise again until a few weeks have passed. But when it does, it rears its ugly head in the most dramatic of fashions.

Hiccup is in the middle of training the recruits in the Dome when a terror arrives carrying a note from the South-West outpost. The first line reads:

_Sentries have spotted a Viking fleet on the horizon. _

The rest of the note specifies their armaments, _a dozen ballistae, five catapults, heavily armed soldiers spotted on the flagship… _Hiccup doesn't know who could be crazy enough to attempt something like this, but the note makes one thing clear, the fleet is nothing short of an invasion force.

He issues a rushed explanation to the recruits before heading out the closest landing on Toothless's back. When he reaches the outpost, he's greeted by his sentries' faces, all awash with concern.

"How far out?" he asks.

The captain of the South-West outpost hands him a spyglass. "A few hours, sir."

Good, they're still pretty far off Ísfjall's coast. But whatever small relief he's experiencing quickly dissolves the moment he puts the spyglass to his eye. The flagship is flying Berk's colours, and inked to the mainsail is the Berkian crest. Hiccup feels as though he's in free-fall, and not in a fun way. His father's onboard that ship, he can feel it.

Distantly, Hiccup hears the captain asking for his orders, but he's having trouble processing this new development and his head's in a spin. He doesn't know what to think, much less how to react.

He can't sink them, but letting them sail into his city will be even more disastrous. Before he's pressed for orders a second time, a bird call from above draws both his and the captain's gazes skyward. A sparrow hawk is circling above, looking to land.

Hiccup extends his leather-clad arm and the bird swoops down, gripping his sleeve with its sharp talons. There's a small parchment strapped to its leg, and Hiccup unties the string keeping it there. Printed on the parchment in smudged runes is a message detailing Chief Stoick's —his father's— intentions regarding his apparent invasion. It's addressed to the _Dragon Master._

_You have stolen something from me, but I am not here to see it returned. That is impossible. Pay me my dues, and I shall pay you yours. I am here to collect weregild for my son. Should you refuse to negotiate, we will collect by force. Believe that I will have no qualms with burning your nest to the ground. _

Wait, what? This doesn't make any sense. What could have led his father to believe he has any such claim? His mind is reeling, searching for an explanation. The people of Berk were led to believe he perished that day in the woods, not by the hand of the Dragon Master. If he wants revenge, why come here? Why not be out there, searching for the dragon that took his heir? Unless… Unless Stoick believes he's already found it.

Toothless' presence on the island has never been kept secret. Astrid saw the Night Fury with her own two eyes less than a month ago, of course, she will have confirmed the rumours to her chief.

But weregild? Seriously? Is he nothing more than blood money to Stoick now? It hurts that Stoick would use his 'death' in this way, that simple material compensation could remedy the sense of loss. Unless his father hasn't felt that way at all. For five years, Hiccup has been beating himself up about leaving, about hurting Stoick, but what if Stoick hasn't been hurt at all? What if he's _relieved_?

Hiccup feels the acidic burn of bile in his throat.

"Let the flagship through the lock." His voice is crisp and strong, but inside he feels cold and fragile. "Have their chief meet me in the war room. I'll be waiting."

* * *

When Valka hears about the fleet's arrival, she's at the war room in an instant. Hiccup is standing at the head of the tactical board with a stern look on his face. She knows better than to ask how he's faring, it's pretty obvious that he hasn't taken it well either.

If he notices her entry, he doesn't let on, choosing to shuffle some of the pieces around the board, visualising a new strategy. The set up looks for all the world like an oversized game of Maces and Talons, sometimes it's all too easy to forget the price of war. Though her son never does, and that, she thinks, is one of his most admirable qualities.

"They're here," she tells him, trying to convey her support and offer some strength without being overly-motherly. At a time like this, he needs critical thinking rather than a shoulder to lean on.

They share a look, one that speaks a thousand words, and he nods. Then, they both don their helmets and call in Chief Stoick the Vast.

He's joined by a few other tribesmen —the teens most notably among them, as well as his old mentor, Gobber— all dressed in full armour, each carrying some kind of weapon, be it a longsword, an axe or a bow. Stoick wears an unreadable expression, perhaps something between spite and anger, and grips his weapon tighter for security.

"Your beast has ended the Haddock lineage," says Stoick, very business-like. "What debt do you think this meters, Dragon Master?" he asks coldly.

From his left, Hiccup hears Toothless snarl viciously. "How should I know how much your heir was worth to you?"

"I suppose such things are beyond you demons," he muses. "Go on, make me an offer."

This isn't at all how Hiccup envisioned negotiations going. Not that he's spent excessive time picturing negotiations for his own weregild, in fact, the situation feels almost surreal. But that his father would have the 'enemy' name his price, it's virtually unbelievable.

"Two-hundred thrymsa[1]," Hiccup replies at length.

It's a peasant's weregild, he knows, but Stoick hasn't provided any evidence to lead him to believe that Hiccup's life was of any value to the Chief. And yeah, the petty insult makes him feel good, powerful even. As if he's holding all the cards. Something he's never felt before in the presence of this man.

Stoick actually appears to ponder this for a moment. "Insulting but predictable. I expected nothing less," he dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. "My turn… Let me tell you exactly how much my son's life meant to me…" A dark shadow passes over Stoick's face.

Hiccup waits for his father to make a new bid, but the man doesn't open his mouth to speak again. While the Dragon Master had been strategically keeping his distance, Stoick had been moving in closer, limiting the paces between them. And now that he has Hiccup within arm's length, Stoick lunges forwards with his axe blade, cold murder in his eyes.

Rapid reflexes are all that save Hiccup. He extends _Inferno_, his flaming sword, and arches it upwards, into the axe's path.

Somewhere beside him, Valka gasps.

Hiccup's parry melts through the Chief's weapon like soft butter. The axe clatters to the ground in two separate pieces. The young man drops to his knees, the strength stolen from his legs.

When Stoick moves to attack again, he finds himself pinned beneath the mighty form of the Dragon Master's loyal Night Fury. Toothless roars threateningly, as if waiting for an order to kill. He isn't, of course, for Hiccup has never had reason to give such an order, but he could've fooled everyone else. The proud Viking braces himself, fully prepared to meet the same fate as his son, grim acceptance written over his coarse features.

The soldiers posted inside the war room task themselves with restraining the small party of Vikings, fighting off their hold and trying to rush to the aid of their chief. But it was already too late.

Finally having shaken off his shock, the Dragon Master rises to his feet.

It was never about the lost heir's weregild. It's about pure revenge. And somehow, that makes things better. Stoick was prepared to risk everything to have it, imagine what he might risk if he knows the truth… or at least a part of it. Suddenly, a plan starts to take shape in his mind's eye. It's manipulative, it's dangerous, but by Thor, is it pure genius.

Hiccup calls off his dragon and straightens his helmet. "Take them to the dungeons," he orders.

The pair of guards flanking him move in to subdue Stoick. Even the mighty chief can't shake them both and he hangs his head in defeat. As they drag the Vikings from the throne room, the Dragon Master meets the Chief's eyes once more.

"You killed my son," he whispers, brokenly. "You killed Hiccup." Then, even more quietly, and more to himself, he adds, "I'm so sorry, my boy."

* * *

[1] Thrymsa was a gold coin minted in seventh-century Anglo-Saxon England. Given HTTYD is set anywhere from 811 to sometime later, and thrymsa ceased to be minted after about 675, it's actually a little bit too early. Though for the purpose of that one line, it's going to be the currency used in Ísfjall.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who favourited/followed this story and a special thanks to CajunBear73, Steampunk Wilson, OechsnerC, YaAz97, Hilko Salomons, Silvolde, and a guest for reviewing. As always, concrit is very welcome, so keep 'em coming. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as I did in writing it. What do you think Hiccup plans to tell Stoick?


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